


not all that glitters is gold

by simplyclockwork



Series: folklore and fantasy [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (In past tense), Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Character Mirrors, Dread, Fratricide, Horror, Irish Folklore, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of mental illness and psychosis, Murder, Nightmares, PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Predictions, Shapeshifting, Spook Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon, Spookme Ficathon 2020, Spoopy fog, Takes Place Between Hounds of Baskerville and The Reichenbach Fall, Unsettling, mentions of depression and suicide, pre-the fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27208459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Summoned to Ireland for a case of fratricide, Sherlock and John find that not all is as it seems and some nightmares exist outside of sleep.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: folklore and fantasy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962853
Comments: 12
Kudos: 39
Collections: Spook Me Ficathon 2020, Spooky Johnlock Collection





	not all that glitters is gold

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the 2020 Spookme Ficathon with the prompt _shapeshifter._

The man digs. He digs with fingers bloodied by scraping and scratching at the earth. From a desperate excavation into the cold ground as the skin tears and his nails grow into jagged, broken things, and red drips from his fingertips.

At his side lies a figure with an identical face, his fair hair darkened and thickened by gore, his fixed eyes faded and blue. The man, his twin, rips into the soil with bare hands. His unblinking gaze stares, unfocused, at the frozen ground where he digs, lips quivering around a steady, empty stream of words and sounds.

He spits into the earth and whimpers frantic pleas to the mist.

* * *

“I hate Ireland,” John grouches, slinging a duffle over his shoulder. Standing outside the rental car, he stares sourly up at the small inn, irritated by how much it reminds him of Baskerville. Sherlock slams the boot shut, turning with his own bag in hand and a cocked eyebrow.

“How very Oliver Cromwell of you, John,” he muses, earning himself a sharp glare as John rolls his eyes and scoffs.

“I didn’t mean like _that.”_ John rubs his hands together, the chill of the thick, draping fog hanging over the stark scenery already seeping into his bones. “It just… reminds me of bad memories,” he mutters, his narrowed eyes darting over the inn.

Sherlock seems to understand, voicing a soft, “Ah.” Tension flickers over his face before he appears to shake it off. “Can’t be helped, John. In we go.”

Inside the inn, the layout is quaint and comfortable, and John squints toward the check-in counter. If the owners are two gay men with a dog, he’s going to sleep in the damn rental car. He’s had more than enough of Baskerville parallels, what with the fog and the sinking, creeping sense of wrongness that hangs in the crisp air.

To John’s relief, the owners are a man in his eighties, and his unwed daughter, a quiet but kind woman with blonde hair, shot through with grey. They match the inn itself perfectly, the building a little rundown but welcoming in a faded sort of way.

As often happens, he and Sherlock are sharing a room. After check-in, John eyes the two double beds, the ancient television, the rotary phone and the tiny bathroom. The wallpaper is a hideous paisley pattern, peeling and faded. John feels strangely at home, the decoration reminiscent of Baker Street and its mismatched coziness, easing some of his tension.

“This place looks like no one’s updated it since the 50s,” he jokes, setting his suitcase on one of the beds. Sherlock, standing at the window with his fingers steepled against his bottom lip, narrows his eyes and doesn’t respond. John watches him a moment before sitting on the bed with a sigh. “So, the case.”

Turning away from the window, Sherlock drops his hands back to his sides. He begins outlining the particulars in a level voice, pacing the small room with long strides. It doesn’t take him long to reach one wall and pivot toward the other. John watches him, mollified now they're out of the fog and amused by Sherlock’s restless movements. “The mother of the suspect reached out to us after the police found her son with the body of his twin brother.”

“Cause of death?”

Sherlock shakes his head, lips pursed. “She couldn’t say for sure. The police were being rather unhelpful.”

“Hence why she called us,” John surmises, receiving a stiff nod.

Dropping onto the other bed, Sherlock stretches out his long legs and looks over at John. “Precisely.” He rolls the stiffness from his shoulders, a product of their long drive, and taps his fingers restlessly against the duvet. John suppresses a grin, recognizing the clear signs of Sherlock energized, buoyed by the promise of a new mystery. After a seemingly endless stretch without cases, John is glad to see him raring to go.

“Alright,” he says, catching Sherlock’s attention from where he’s already sunk into thought again. “What’s first?”

Sherlock bounces to his feet, rocking on his heels to regain his balance. “Police station. I want to see the body. Then I want to talk to the brother.”

“I hope you mean the living one,” John quips, earning himself an unamused glower. He snorts and nudges Sherlock out the door.

* * *

“Blunt force trauma.” Tilting his head with narrowed eyes, John nods to himself. “Severe blow to the back of the skull. Pretty obvious, given the blood and the, er, fractured bone.” He straightens and glances over at Sherlock, who is peering closely at the dead man’s fingernails. Clicking his magnifying glass closed, he stands upright and nods as well.

“No skin or blood under the fingernails and no other wounds, defensive or otherwise.” Packing up his tools, Sherlock slips the case into a pocket before turning to the morgue attendant and a local officer. “Was the murder weapon recovered?”

The police officer steps forward with a notebook in hand. “Large rock,” he replies, pointing at a scrawled note. “Found next to the body.” Flipping the book closed, he tucks it against his chest with folded arms. “Not really sure why you’re here, Mister Holmes. Ian O’Brien was clearly killed by his brother, Liam. Case closed.” A hint of annoyance colours his tone, and John shifts closer with narrowed eyes. The morgue attendant glances between them and shifts away to fiddle with paperwork.

“I was hired by the mother of the victim and suspect.” Tilting his chin up, Sherlock favours the officer with a dismissive sneer. “She seems to think there’s more to this than cut-and-dried murder.”

One of the officer’s brows rises, his arms tightening over his chest as his back straightens. “And what do _you_ think, Mister Holmes?” He’s nowhere near as tall as Sherlock—few people are—but he tries his best to appear large. John’s lips purse and he stuffs his hands deep into his jeans as he sidles up to Sherlock’s side. The officer glances in his direction and seems to dismiss him. John’s lips twitch upward in a small, dangerous smirk.

“Well,” Sherlock begins, turning to frown at the dead man, “the evidence does seem to tell a compelling tale. However...” Rocking on his heels, he claps his hands together with a slight smile. “Things are not always as they seem. I’d like to speak to the brother, if I may, Officer...?”

The officer glares but offers his name begrudgingly. “Murphy. And, if you _must_ , I suppose I can arrange an interview.”

“Wonderful,” Sherlock simpers, pasting a wide, wolfish grin on his face. John forces down a snort at the forced expression, and Officer Murphy shoots Sherlock an annoyed look.

* * *

The man is clearly suffering from some kind of delusion. Even John can see it. It happens, John knows it does, as he’s seen it before, though never like this.

Sitting across from Sherlock, Liam O’Brien slumps over the metal table, his eyes half-closed and his lips moving as he repeats something to himself over and over. His soft whisper never changes, just an ongoing sigh of, “Not right, not right, _not right.”_

For the fifth time since taking his seat, Sherlock tries to catch his attention. “Mister O’Brien,” he says, eyes narrowed at the shaking man. “Mister O’Brien, I need you to answer some questions for me. Can you do that?”

“Clearly not,” Murphy mutters from the corner. He stands with his arms crossed over his chest and doesn’t acknowledge Sherlock’s glare.

“Mister O’Brien,” Sherlock attempts before trying, “Liam? Liam, can you talk to me?” No verbal acknowledgment, though Liam shifts his head to the side and falls silent. His expression pensive, Sherlock leans back in his chair and frowns at the unresponsive man.

Curious, John moves forward and kneels next to the table, bringing himself eye-to-eye with the man.

“John,” Sherlock begins, his tone edged with warning. John ignores him and waves the words away, focusing on the man before him.

Liam stares past him until his pupils contract, and his gaze locks on John’s face. Startled by the sudden attention, John sucks in a breath but holds still, watching Liam with caution. “Mister O’Brien?”

“Eyes,” Liam says softly. His voice emerges rough and scraped raw. “It was his _eyes.”_ It’s barely more than a whisper, holding John in place. Across the table, Sherlock sits stiff and rigid, his gaze darting between Liam and John.

His mouth gone dry, John swallows and finds his voice, asking, “What about his eyes, Mister O’Brien?”

Liam blinks as slowly as he speaks, focused on John’s face. “Ian,” he murmurs, his brow creasing. “John. Ian. John. Ian. John.”

Wetting his lips, John tilts his head toward Sherlock without taking his eyes off Liam’s face. “That mean anything to you?” Murphy responds from near the door.

“Ian is the Irish form of John,” he explains in a quiet voice.

“Ah,” John hums, facing Liam once more. “I see. Is that why you’ll speak to me? I remind you of your brother?”

Instead of answering, Liam blinks again and mutters, “His eyes were _wrong._ Your eyes are _blue.”_

“They are, yeah,” John agrees, keeping his tone light. “Well spotted. Why don’t you tell me about Ian’s eyes.” He offers a slight, coaxing smile. “What do you mean, they were ‘wrong?’”

His own eyes widening, pupils contracting in response, Liam shakes his head. _“Wrong,_ ” he insists, hands curling into claws. His nails, ripped and ragged, scrape uselessly against the stainless steel. “He wasn’t _right.”_ His agitation grows, becomes a palpable force that shivers through his body like a shockwave.

John frowns, wets his lips and tilts back, preparing to rise.

 _“No.”_ Liam lunges forward and catches him by the collar, reeling him in. Stiffening, John jerks his head away as the man leans close. He sees Sherlock stand and take a step forward from the corner of his eye and lifts a hand to stop him. Sherlock halts, watching with a nervous expression while his fingers twist together, his pale eyes darting first over John then Liam.

“What is it?” John asks, letting his breath out through his teeth in a tense hiss. “What do you want to tell me?”

Liam stares hard at John’s face, his gaze huge and unblinking. Slowly, with a shaking hand, he taps a finger to the skin between John’s wary eyes. “Gold,” he says, the colour draining from his face and leaving him looking pallid and sickly-sallow. “His eyes. They were. Gold.” He splits the words into three short sentences, punctuating each with a tap between John’s eyes. _“Gold.”_ He releases John and slumps over the table again, making a distraught noise, eyelids sliding shut with a broken moan.

John’s hands shake as he tries to smooth the wrinkles out of his shirt before standing. Sherlock immediately steps into his space, crowding close and easing John away from the now-silent Liam. Moving back, John ignores Murphy’s sideways glance and watches Sherlock stare down at Liam. But the man seems to have slipped into a semi-catatonic state, his expression twisted into an anguished moue, his eyes unfocused.

“Come, John,” Sherlock says finally, turning on his heel and striding out the door. John exchanges a look with Murphy, shrugs, and hurries after Sherlock’s retreating back. When he catches up, Sherlock is frowning at the floor, walking briskly. He threatens to leave John behind with his long legs, and John quickens his step to keep up.

“Sherlock.” No response as Sherlock’s the furrows on Sherlock’s brow deepen. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock jerks and draws up suddenly, turning to John in a swirl of coat. His eyes rove over John’s face, intense and sharp, and John clears his throat, shifting beneath his piercing stare. “Are you alright?” Sherlock asks, catching him off guard. John blinks and wets his lips before nodding.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Eyes narrowed, he peers closer at Sherlock, taking in his frantic expression, the slight pallor of his skin. “Are _you?”_

“Perfectly fine,” Sherlock snaps, and then he’s off again, sweeping away down the hall. Letting out a loud, rushing sigh, John hurries to catch up.

* * *

“So…” Perched on the edge of his chosen bed, John eyes Sherlock’s stiff posture from the edge of his vision. “Any thoughts?”

Head shaking as if coming out of a daze, Sherlock shoots him an agitated glance. “Obviously something psychological,” he replies, tone flat and body rigid. John raises a brow but doesn’t comment on the evident tension radiating off his flatmate.

“Yeah, I’d say so. Psychotic break, maybe?” Sherlock just hums before subsiding back into silence, and John pats his hands restlessly against his thighs. Brow furrowed, he tilts back and taps his toes to the floor with a bemused expression. “He said his brother’s eyes were _gold_.”

“Yes, and?” Sherlock snaps, jaw clenched. “Seeing things, clearly. Hallucinations are sometimes an aspect of psychosis.”

“Yeah…” Running the pad of his thumb over his eyebrow, John shakes his head. “It’s just… it’s very specific. And he reacted to me, that was pretty clear.” Air rushes out of his mouth in a gust. “I don’t know what to think.” 

“I think this trip was pointless,” Sherlock grumbles with a bitter grimace. “First potentially promising case in weeks, and it’s nothing but a cut-and-dried murder. The brother probably has an undiagnosed underlying condition.” He sighs, crossing to the window and glaring outside with a sullen expression. “Dull.”

Instead of calling Sherlock out on his inappropriate response to a tragic crime and a torn-apart family, John tilts his head. A thought occurs, and he asks, “Hey... what colour _were_ Ian’s eyes? I must have looked, but I can’t remember.” He doesn’t mention how, whenever he pictures the dead man’s face, his eyes are wide open and staring and deep, liquid gold. The image persists no matter how hard John tries to banish it.

“Blue,” Sherlock says absently, dragging a fingertip over the window. The sound of bare skin against glass makes a high squeaking sound, and John winces. Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice, adding, “Bright blue.”

* * *

Leaving Sherlock to his thinking and mulish attitude, John retreats downstairs, where a small common area beckons. Clustered around a roaring, merry fire are overstuffed chairs and scratched tables with wobbly legs. John drops into an armchair with an appreciative groan. The space reminds him vaguely of Baskerville, minus a shaken Sherlock with a glass of whiskey, and John is grateful that the similarities end with the fire and the common area.

He draws his legs up onto the seat, sans-boots, and tucks his toes into the crease between cushion and arm, wiggling them into the tight space. The moment reminds him of trips to the countryside as a child, and John feels a faint pang in his chest at the rolling nostalgia that washes over him.

“Doctor Watson?”

The soft voice pulls him out of his thoughts, drawing his focus from the flickering orange dance of the fire to the creased, weathered face of the inn’s male proprietor, standing over him.

“Hullo,” John replies with a slight smile. “Mister Cassidy, right?”

Cassidy returns the smile with one of his own, teeth yellowed but surprisingly straight, as he settles into a rickety chair adjacent to John. “Yup. Just like it says on the sign outside,” he replies, and John’s mind flashes back to the name of the establishment, _Cassidy Inn._ Cassidy goes on in his heavily-accented Irish lilt, “But most folks just call me Cas.”

His smile widening, John reaches out to accept the man’s firm handshake. “Best call me John, then.” Cas tilts his head in agreement, and they both settle into a comfortable silence.

Cas breaks it first, shooting John a considering look that John returns with a curious tilt of his head. “You’re here because of the O’Brien murder, right?”

Shutting one eye in a grimace, John replies, “Yeah, but I can’t really speak to it. Open case and all that.” He shrugs to soften the words. Cas shakes his head.

“Wouldn’t dream of pressing for gossip, John,” he says, and John nods with relief. “Dreadful business, the whole thing. I know Ms. O’Brien. She lost her husband a couple years back to the same darkness that took my Ellie, twenty years ago now.” His eyes dim for a moment in memory of who John can only assume was his wife. He shakes it off just as quickly, clarifying at John’s expression, “Depression. Fierce beast, it is.”

“I’m sorry,” John says in a soft voice, filing away the information for later. No doubt, Sherlock will want to know of a possible hereditary chance for mental health issues in the O’Brien family. “It’s not easy.”

Cas fixes him with a shrewd eye. “You speak as though you’ve seen it yourself,” he presses, albeit gently. John just nods and doesn’t elaborate. The elderly innkeeper lets the topic drop, forging onward without lingering. “Good woman, Ms. O’Brien. Did her best by those boys of hers, even after they lost their father.” He shakes his head, a sorrowful expression slipping over his face. “It’s awful, truly awful. Heartbreaking, one brother killing the other like that. And twins, no less. Can’t imagine losing my Alison.” Cas nods toward the desk, where his adult daughter is busy with paperwork. “She’s all I got since her mum passed. Ms. O’Brien was the same. Now, one son soon to be in the ground and the other off to the clinker for it.” Another head shake as his expression turns tight and mournful.

They subside into a pensive silence. John stares at the fire, mulling over Cas’ words with his thumb skating over his bottom lip. Just when Cas lays his hands on his knees as if to stand, does John break the quiet. “Do golden eyes mean anything to you, Mister Cassidy?”

Half-shifted to the edge of his chair, Cas settles back with a blink. “Cas,” he reminds, accepting John’s sheepish nod before his expression shifts toward a thoughtful frown. “And I just might, John. However, it's cold, and the weather here passes a hell of a lot easier with some booze in the belly if you’ll humour an old Irish man.”

Offering a smile, John replies, “I wouldn’t turn down a proper Guinness pint if you’re set up with the tap.”

Cas grins and pats him on the shoulder as he rises. “You’d be no good in my books if you did.” Turning away, he crosses to the desk and behind, leaving John to look back to the fire. Lost in his thoughts, he surfaces with a blink when Cas returns with two pints of dark beer in his hands. John takes the one offered before leaning back in his chair, waiting for Cas to get settled.

“So,” he says, once the older man appears comfortable, _“do_ golden eyes mean something, then?”

Nodding, Cas takes a drink of his beer, watching John over the rim until he does as well. The beer goes down smooth and slightly bitter, a true nitro brew with no carbonation to buzz in his stomach. John swallows and hums his enjoyment, receiving a pleased nod from the innkeeper. Setting aside his own beer, Cas’ brow furrows as his hands fold together in his lap.

“Do you know much of Irish folklore, John?” he asks, and John shakes his head. Tipping the rim of the pint glass to his lips, he drinks and waits for Cas to muse over his answer before he says, “So it's unlikely you know the story of the _Púca_.” He pronounces the word as _pooka,_ and John frowns.

“Can’t say that I do.” He wonders what the seemingly non-sequitur has to do with his question about golden eyes but chooses not to interrupt. Cas appears to hear the unspoken confusion, fixing John with a patient look.

“In Irish lore, the _Púca_ is a trickster spirit. A shapeshifting creature that haunts the moors.”

John tilts his head with a curious moue to his lips. “A shapeshifter?” Cas nods.

“Yessir. The _Púca_ can take any form. Man, beast, whatever it wants. Though, according to the tales, it favours certain shapes. Goat, horse, dog, rabbit, sometimes even human.”

John shivers at the word _dog_ before suppressing the memories from Baskerville. If he never hears the word ‘hound’ again in his life, it’ll be too soon. He refocuses as Cas continues.

“Regardless of its form, the _Púca_ is as changeable as its shapeshifting nature. Though often mischievous, even dangerous, it can be helpful. There are as many stories of it taking drunkards for wild, terrifying rides on its back as a horse as there are of it providing advice to lonely souls. Sometimes, it will predict events in your future, things yet to come. But, all that aside, there’s one constant.” Cas holds up a wrinkled finger, and John blinks, finding himself spellbound. When the innkeeper pauses to take a drink of his beer, the condensation slips over his swollen knuckles, and John waits impatiently. Cas sets the beer aside but doesn’t speak right away, his expression troubled, eyes focused on the fire.

When his burning curiousity becomes too much to bear, John gently prompts, “What is it?” Cas seems to shake himself out of a deep reverie, shooting John a startled look. “The one constant,” John reminds, fingers tightening where his hand grips his knee. “What’s the one constant?”

A small smile twitches over Cas’ thin, pale lips, not a hint of humour in his expression. “You said it yourself earlier,” he says, tilting his head at John’s bemused frown. “Golden eyes, John. No matter what it looks like, the _Púca_ always has eyes the colour of gold. Of greed and gold nuggets and that burning, thin line between day and night.”

John falls into an uneasy silence. His hands soften, sitting loose in his lap as confusion rolls through him. As if sensing his reaction, Cas waves his hands in a dismissive, apologetic gesture.

“But it’s all just a story, of course.” His smile is sheepish, tone almost flippant as he negates his own words. “Don’t pay no mind to a tired man’s yarns, John. Naught but old wives’ tales, dreamed up to frighten children into staying in come nightfall.” Standing, Cas lays a comforting hand down on John’s aching shoulder. “You enjoy that Guinness, and let me or Alison know if you need anything.” With one last pat, he leaves John to his thoughts. They ricochet through John’s head like bullets through a tunnel, pinging and rocketing off a sense of stunned dread.

When he finally drains the last of his beer and makes his way upstairs, John knows he won’t tell Sherlock about Cas and his story of the _Púca._ It’s unlikely Sherlock will believe him, or so John tells himself.

The truth is, he’s not sure he can bring himself to speak the name after Liam’s feverish admissions about his dead brother’s eyes.

* * *

Lying beneath the sheets and the thin duvet, John can’t keep his eyes off the shadows dancing over the dark ceiling. Their unsettling reach is emboldened by the faint illumination of Sherlock’s bedside lamp, the man himself still awake. Sherlock sits in the middle of the mattress with his legs folded under him, long-fingered hands pressed together beneath his chin. His eyes are closed, and John watches the gloom shift over Sherlock's pensive face. Outside, branches scrape against the window with icy fingers, and John can’t sleep.

“Nightmares?” Sherlock’s voice is loud and sudden in the quiet. Suppressing the urge to jump, John glances at his watch, marks the time as just shy of 3 am, and gives up on sleeping. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, feet landing on cold hardwood, and clenches his muscles against the chill.

“Not tonight,” he says shortly, pausing to scrub his hands over his tired face. His eyes ache with the grit of fatigue, feeling like twin bruises in their sockets. It’s not John’s body that’s keeping him up, even though the foggy weather makes his shoulder twinge. No, it’s his mind, whirling and struggling over the events of the day.

_Gold. His eyes. They were. Gold._

_No matter what it looks like, the Púca always has eyes the colour of gold. Of greed and gold nuggets and that burning, thin line between day and night._

Liam’s words echo in his head, followed by Cas’ even when John tries to shake them away. But they cling like damp to bare skin, and John can’t seem to get warm. A shiver runs through him. From the edge of his vision, he sees Sherlock’s eyes open and settle on him.

“Are you alright?” he asks, the question a repeat of earlier in the day. John’s hands move away from his face, one dropping to his lap as the other rakes unsteady fingers through his pillow-mussed hair. Sherlock’s eyes follow the motion before darting to John’s face when the hand joins its partner on John’s thighs.

John’s reply is a short, dry, “Fantastic.” His face closing off, Sherlock shuts his eyes with a frown.

“Then maybe you can be a little quieter in your tossing and turning,” Sherlock snaps, his ire clearly piqued by John’s tone. “I can’t _think_ with all your flopping about.”

John blows a sigh out through his teeth, the sound hissing into the chilled air of their room. “Yeah, whatever,” he mutters, rising to his feet and padding into the loo. Closing the door behind him, he relieves his aching bladder before washing his hands in water hot enough to steam the mirror. The burn is borderline torture, but the warmth is worth it, and John considers a shower to loosen his shoulder. His lips quirk sardonically at the corners. The additional noise would likely prompt a hissy fit from Sherlock, and John decides the drama isn’t worth the temporary relief.

Instead, he wipes away the fog clouding the mirror and stares at his reflection. Tired, bloodshot eyes stare back, heavy shadows dark beneath. Frowning, John drags a hand over his jaw, feeling a dusting of stubble. A shave sounds strangely alluring, but sleep sounds even better.

Drying his face on a rough flannel, John shuts off the light and returns to the main room. Sherlock hasn’t moved. He looks like a man turned to marble, a Greek statue clad in thinning cotton bottoms and a rumpled grey t-shirt. There is something decidedly aristocratic about him, all sharp angles and composure, save for the tiny frown lingering on his otherwise smooth brow. Sherlock is an attractive man, not that John hasn’t noticed before. But noticing leads to fantasizing, leads to wanting, and he’d prefer not to battle with his complicated feelings for his flatmate at three in the morning.

John tears his gaze away and stares at his own bed. Despite the exhaustion hanging over him, his vision blurred by desperate fatigue, it looks utterly unappealing. The branches are still scraping against the windowpane, like nails on glass, and the sound makes John’s skin crawl. Cold as it is, he won’t be able to get comfortable. Not when the air in the room feels stuffy and close. Caught between a choice of tossing and turning all night, paired with Sherlock’s grumbling ire, or giving up on sleep altogether, John chooses the latter.

He bends and pulls his duffle from beneath the bed, tugging out several pieces of clothing. Across the room, Sherlock twitches, and his frown deepens. His eyes pop open as John slips jeans on over his pants and a jumper over his head, followed by his jacket.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock's voice sounds rough with disuse, even though he spoke moments ago.

John’s reply is a short and stiff, “Out,” as he shoves his feet into socks, then into boots, wiggling his toes to bring feeling into them. He can sense the sharp rake of Sherlock’s stare moving over his frame, lingering on the undoubtedly canted tilt of his shoulders. The longer he’s in the room, the more tension settles along his spine, and John’s entire body itches for escape.

“Your shoulder hurts.” Sherlock’s tone is concerned before slipping toward reproachful. “You should have said something, John.”

John huffs and laces his boots before straightening. “I’m fine, Sherlock. I’ll be back in a bit. I just… I need some air.” He strides across the room, pulling the door open as Sherlock’s voice drifts after him.

“It’s three in the morning, John. Where could you possibly go? John? John!”

Closing the door on Sherlock's words, John tilts his head toward the ceiling, pulls in a breath, and finds the air in the hall just as suffocating as inside their room. A frown wrinkling his brow, John shrugs his shoulders, winces as the scar tissue tightens, and moves down the hall to the stairs. He creeps down quietly, trying not to disturb anyone else in the small building.

In the common area, the fire has burnt down to embers, flickers of ruby red among the charcoal black remains of devoured logs. The sight explains the chill lurking about the place, and John tugs his coat closed with a shiver. Arms folded over his chest to keep out the biting cold, he slips through the front door and out into the hazy realm of the witching hour.

It’s freezing, the climate winter-raw and fierce, biting into John’s body. The cruel temperature is like a physical thing, breathing down his neck and working icy fingers beneath the collar of his coat. Everything is blurred by the thick fog hanging over the moors, softening the stark scenery into something indefinite. John thinks he hears the beat of massive hooves nearby, followed by the beckoning call of a horse out in the marsh, muffled and made vague by the fog’s dampening effect. He brushes the noise off as a figment of a mind in dire need of sleep.

John lingers on the front step of the inn. He moves into the fluid wall of clouds with wary steps, his plan for a short, brisk walk faltering in the face of the miasma in front of him. Small, icy gusts of wind sigh through his hair, disturbing the obscuration. Each eddying breeze stirs the mist, making it flex and shift, bending outward, reaching intangible fingers toward him before sucking back. The fog is like a breathing thing, moved by the silent, hidden beat of some enormous and unseen heart. For a second, John fancies that he can hear the pulse, the flow of life that feeds through the unimaginable beast that is the fog itself.

When he breathes, the mist swirls into his lungs, making its home deep in his chest like a parasite.

Shaking the irrational thought away, John wraps his arms tighter across his chest and squints into the dark. The swirling shape of the fog plays tricks on his eyes, and he retraces his steps, waiting for the hard edge of the front stairs to strike his heels. He counts each step, passes the assumed number he theorizes it should take to reach the inn, and feels a lick of panic deep in his stomach.

Clenching his teeth, John clears his throat. Partly because it feels tight, and partly because the absolute, hanging silence of the hazy atmosphere sets off alarm bells in his head.

The fog swallows the harsh noise like a hungry beast, and John presses his lips hard together to stop a far louder sound from escaping. He keeps walking backwards, fighting to keep his movements slow and steady, refusing the urge to turn and sprint. If he’s already lost, then running will only take him hopelessly further away from the inn. He will stay calm; he will not bolt, and why can’t he find the stairs? _Where are the stairs?_

His shoulders bump into something tangible, and John freezes. Standing stiffly, he listens and waits, but whatever it is doesn’t move. Slowly, with a shaking hand, he reaches back and feels over the object. His palm scrapes over the rough texture of gnarled bark that rubs his skin raw, making him hiss at the sudden pain and recoil.

It’s a tree. In all this eerie, murky air and the sparse grass and the rolling, empty moors, is a tree. John plants his back against the trunk, grateful for something solid in all the churning fog. Disregarding his search for the stairs, he clings to the desert island of the tree in the ocean of mist and closes his eyes to the endless stretch of grey.

A sound, a quiet scuff far too close to be just an echo in the fog, makes them fly open again. Turning his head, John blinks as a shape melts through the dark. It shifts, wavers and grows before shrinking and solidifying into a form John would know anywhere.

“Sherlock?” he says in a soft, uncertain voice. “What are you doing out here? I thought you were thinking.”

Sherlock stops a few feet away and doesn't reply. Instead of looking at John, he just stares out into the fog. Tendrils of intangible clouds snake between them, obscuring Sherlock’s face until John can barely make out the curve of his jaw, the dark curl of his hair.

He tries again, a doubtful, “Sherlock?” When no answer is forthcoming, John dredges up his earlier annoyance, desperate to feel anything but lost and alarmed in unfamiliar territory. Every soldiery instinct is screaming at him in full volume, and John clears his throat before he snaps, “I told you I wanted some air. It wasn’t an invitation for you to join me.” There, that’s better. His voice is almost steady, barely a shake in the words, the forced, false irritation helping to take the edge off his growing panic.

Finally, Sherlock speaks. His voice sounds a little strange, deeper and whispering. John blames it on the atmosphere, denying the cold sliver of unease walking icy fingers up his spine. “You wanted to be alone?”

Brow furrowing, John shoots him a look, sees that Sherlock is still turned away and nearly motionless. Only his curls move, teased by a slight breeze that John can’t feel.

“I guess,” he admits, confused by Sherlock’s words. “Don’t you want to be alone, sometimes? I mean, we’re almost always in each other’s space.”

For the second time, Sherlock ignores his question, stating, “You never want to be alone, John.”

John's body stiffens, pulling his muscles tight as his head whips around. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a lie.”

Eyebrows dropping down, John's eyes dart over Sherlock’s figure in disbelief. “A lie? Sherlock, what are you talking about?”

He sees the corner of Sherlock’s mouth curl upward before the fog steals away the sight. “You’ve never wanted to be alone, John. Not as a small child, and _definitely_ not now, as an adult with the scars of life worn on your left shoulder. Not when the nightmares wait for you every night, and the flashbacks crawl out of your skin like sickness.”

Blinking, stunned, John sucks in a sharp breath. “I don’t… how the hell... what are you trying to say?”

“Nothing you don’t already know about yourself, John.” Sherlock’s voice lilts out on a staggered sigh. Instead of disturbing the swirling turbulence of fog in front of his obscured face, it seems to ease into the mist and feed it. It’s like Sherlock is breathing the fog, and the fog is breathing him back.

A flash of anger surges through John’s body, underscoring his tense, humming fear. “What’s gotten into you?” he snaps, hands curling into tight fists. As if woken by Sherlock’s strange words, his shoulder twinges, cramps, and sends the fire of nerve pain deep into his torso. He clenches his teeth against the throb and winces. “Why are you saying these things? If you’re mad at me for something, then just _come out and say it.”_

Sherlock refuses to rise to the bait. He simply stands and stares forward, his eyes erased by the fog, still positioned sideways to John. Once again, instead of answering John’s demands, he speaks in another riddle. "Do you dream of falling, John?”

Stiffening, John frowns. His eyes narrow as he studies the side of Sherlock’s face, tongue darting out to wet his lips. The tree is sturdy against his back, a stark contrast to the intangible creep of the otherworldly haze pressing cold fingers against John’s front. Images slip through his head, coaxed from his psyche by Sherlock’s question. Of course he dreams of falling. _Everyone_ dreams of falling.

It’s not John’s fault if he maybe dreams about falling into sand beneath a hot sun more than the average person.

“Doesn’t everyone?” he asks carefully, gaze darting over Sherlock’s body. Something isn’t right. The voice is Sherlock’s, but the words are too strange. As eccentric as Sherlock can be at times, he has never spoken to John like this. Did he have his own nightmare? Did it drive him outside to John’s side, seeking comfort in this odd, unsettling way? “Do you?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth closest to him ticks upward again, and John’s eyes fasten on the subtle movement. “I don’t dream.”

 _Well, that answers that,_ John thinks before his brow creases, and he shakes his head. “That’s not possible, Sherlock. Everyone dreams. You must, even if you don’t remember them. It’s a natural part of sleep.”

Sherlock’s smile grows, and he doesn't answer. When John begins to shift with uncertainty, the chill air pressing into him and gnawing at his bones even through his layers, Sherlock says, “Beware the fall, John. Some nightmares exist outside of sleep.” He turns as he speaks. The movement disturbs the vapour clinging to his face, the fog eddying away and revealing his face.

In the dark and roiling mist, John sees a flash of gold where he’s used to a silvery slate-blue stare. Shock plunges over him, ice-cold and like inhaling dark water after falling through the fragile surface of a frozen lake. It steals the air from his lungs and forces out a weak sound until John tells himself the golden glimmer is from the moon. Nevermind that the moonlight is silvery or that the fog has cut off all illumination sources from above, lit with its own strange luminescence.

Before John can think of a reply, his lips parting around silence and letting the mist into his mouth, Sherlock walks into the dark. He moves away from John and his tenuous island amongst the sea of swirling grey. He disappears into the haze as if melting into the vapour, his shape bending, blending, blurring, the fog playing devilish tricks on John’s eyes.

He doesn’t move for several long seconds, locked in place by a deep sense of confusion. Sherlock’s disquieting words loop in his head until John finds himself stuck on the strange inflection of _the fall._ Not lower case, but _The Fall_ , like it’s some event rushing upon him.

Lips pressed together in a thoughtful grimace, John turns toward the tree and blinks. His view is suddenly clear, the fog having dissipated as if it never existed. Instead of the hard, gnarled bark of the tree trunk, before him is the inn. He blinks and sways, catching his balance as he looks down and realizes he is standing on the top step. Frozen in bewildered shock, John stares at the stained wood beneath his feet. The finish is warped and faded after years of exposure to unkind weather.

His shivering body finally snaps John out of his reverie, bones stiff and aching from the cold. Even without the fog, the air has a bite, nipping at him through his jacket and jumper. Rubbing at his arms with tingling hands, John trots inside and wipes his boots on the mat inside the door. The fireplace is still aglow with the same dying embers from before, and John crosses the room to frown down at them. He’s confident he was outside for nearly half an hour, if not more, his perception of time warped by the hazy atmosphere.

Judging by the coals, John, impossibly, can’t have been gone for more than five minutes.

Unsettled, he creeps toward the stairs and makes his way to the second floor on tip-toe. One of the steps creaks, and he winces but pushes on without further noise. Pausing outside their shared room with a hand on the doorknob, John wonders at Sherlock’s strange words. There’s no reason to hesitate, not when Sherlock is outside somewhere, no doubt sorting through his thoughts and the case in the dark.

But his bizarre warning hangs heavily over John like a physical weight, pressing down on his shoulders and bowing his back, and he hesitates. Slowly, his eyes narrow, and he forces back the timidity. He and Sherlock will have a conversation in the morning, and John will get to the bottom of Sherlock’s unnerving and, frankly, unwelcome words.

Turning the knob, John pushes open the door without bothering to be quiet. There’s no one to wake with Sherlock out on the moors. John flicks on the light, both to get his bearings and to banish the darkness lingering over him.

He halts three steps into the room, eyes darting across to the other bed where Sherlock sits, in almost the same position as when John left him. He raises his head, drawing John’s attention to his clothes. Outside, Sherlock was wearing his Belstaff and trousers. The image of him then superimposes over the Sherlock in front of him, who is still wearing his sleepwear.

John shakes his head hard to clear the echo.

Caught off guard by John's entrance, hands folded beneath his chin, Sherlock squints against the light. “John? What is it?”

Frozen inside the door, John stares at him. He blinks, frowns and opens his mouth, but nothing emerges. His mind is stuck, wiped clean by pure shock. When he doesn’t speak, making nothing but a choked, desperate sound, Sherlock’s confused expression disappears. He is on his feet at once, crossing the room with quick strides. Stopping close to John’s stock-still figure, Sherlock tilts his head to peer into John’s wide eyes. He smells warm and a little stuffy, like the room's interior, and nothing like the biting, icy chill of outside, which clings to every inch of John like a frigid aura.

“John?” Sherlock reaches out a hesitant hand and lays it on John’s shoulder. John flinches hard enough that Sherlock immediately retracts the gesture, leaning back with surprise at the visceral response. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…” The words trail off as he studies John’s face with his sharp gaze. John stares back at him, meeting his eyes. Eyes that are pale and icy silver-blue in the light overhead. No matter how hard John searches for even the faintest flicker of a yellow hue, they don't look anything close to gold.

He thinks he might be going mad.

“Is this some kind of joke?” he asks in a ragged croak. His arms begin to shake, and John tenses his muscles to make it stop. But the vibration persists, and Sherlock’s eyes narrow with increasing concern.

“Is what some kind of joke, John?” His confusion is evident, yet John can’t shake the feeling that Sherlock is laughing at him. Silent and internally, laughing at him.

“You were just outside,” John seethes, his teeth coming together with a click. “I… I saw you. I _spoke_ to you.” He lifts a hand, fingers threading into his hair and tugging at the strands hard enough to make the roots protest. The flash of pain produces involuntary tears at the corners of his eyes, and John tugs harder. The sensation brings clarity, and he drops his hand back to his side, glaring at Sherlock. “Did you drug me?” he demands, flashing back to Baskerville. Sherlock watches him with a small frown, eyes ticking warily over John’s face. “Oh, god, you _did_ , didn’t you?” John shakes his head and steps back, hands trembling at his sides before he raises his palms and holds them between him and Sherlock, who pauses in moving forward at the silent order to halt. “I can’t believe you’d do that again, Sherlock. Not after… it was in the fog, wasn’t it? Was it in the fog?” John’s voice is rising, tremulous and furious despite the panicked fear seeping into his body.

Because Sherlock doesn’t look sheepish or apologetic. He doesn’t look how he usually does when John catches him in a lie or calls him out on problematic behaviour. He promised never to drug John again after Baskerville, and John _believed him,_ so why isn’t Sherlock apologizing now?

“Did you put the drug in the fog?” John asks weakly, his voice fading until he sounds very small, even in his own ears. He knows he’s grasping at straws, but they’re all he has, and he grabs on for dear life.

Staring at him, Sherlock asks, “What fog?” in a soft, level voice that makes John bite hard into his bottom lip. "What _drug?_ John, what are you talking about?" He sounds bewildered. Sherlock is a great actor, but not this good, not after John has known him for so long.

Maybe John _has_ gone mad. After horrific hallucinations of hounds and a manipulative dominatrix who almost took Sherlock from him, it’s the simple existence of fog that’s sent him around the bend.

It hardly seems fair.

“The… the fog,” he replies in his fragile tone, the words brittle. “It was like… I couldn’t see, I was lost for nearly half an hour.” John gestures half-heartedly at the window. As if taking its cue, the tree outside scrapes skeletal branches against the glass. The sound makes John shiver, feeling ghostly nails drag down his back.

The expression on Sherlock’s face fills him with a deeper alarm than even the fog itself inspired. Somehow, John knows what he’s going to say even before he says it.

“John,” Sherlock begins slowly. This time, when he steps forward and places his hands on John’s shoulder, John doesn't jerk away. The contact is grounding, Sherlock’s grip firm and tangible. John stares up into Sherlock’s familiar eyes. At his _definitely not golden eyes_ , and listens as he murmurs, “You were gone for seven and a half minutes, give or take the half.”

A sensation like ice water drops over John's body as shock ripples through him. Sherlock watches him with a careful, cautious expression, his grip heavy. It takes a long moment before John can breathe again, and he inhales shakily.

"John?" Sherlock presses in a gentle voice, and John finally manages to nod with mute acceptance. He just stands there, letting Sherlock’s words sink into his muddled mind as Sherlock’s fingers tighten on his shoulders. “I think you should try to get some sleep, John.” He says John's name with wary watchfulness, his anxiety evident.

John nods again, numbly this time. He can’t feel his body, as if the fog has seeped into the room and stolen it away from him. Telling himself that it’s only shock does little to banish the sensation.

With unsteady feet, he lets Sherlock steer him toward his own bed, mumbling something about it being warmer. He helps John out of his jacket, jumper, boots, socks and jeans and coaxes him beneath the covers, which have been heated by Sherlock’s presence on the bed. John's head sinks into the pillow, and his eyes drop to half-mast. Already, the warmth is soaking into his chilled body, spreading lassitude over his limbs.

“Get some sleep,” Sherlock orders, smoothing the blankets over John’s knees with fretful hands. John tilts his head and lets his eyes close all the way without answering.

Just before he drifts off, he hears a sound, drifting distant and obscure through the closed window. The noise follows him into sleep, his mind filled with the cadence of hoofbeats and the faint, beckoning call of a horse on the moors as he dreams of falling.


End file.
